


you would think before you act

by nivu_vu



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Family Issues, Grooming, Homophobia, Implied Somnophilia, Incest, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:36:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28471764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nivu_vu/pseuds/nivu_vu
Summary: Martin's mother falls in love with a new man, and things are looking up for the both of them until it comes quickly crashing down. And Martin finds himself making many poor choices that he can't blame on anyone but himself.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 17
Kudos: 62
Collections: End of Year Exchange 2020





	you would think before you act

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EnzymaticWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnzymaticWitch/gifts).



> Warning: Martin's mom does briefly physically cause him pain to send a message, and it's implied this is normal for their relationship.
> 
> Words used for Martin: chest, clit, cunt

They’re poor. Martin should find it a blessing some rich man has taken an interest in his mother.

He can’t fathom _why_. She probably played some broken bird card with her failing health or-

No, Martin, he reminds himself, that’s not nice to think.

It’s nicer to focus on having a bigger home, maybe even a room he won’t have to share with his mother anymore. Someone else to dote on her - that’s not mean, right? It’s not wrong to want some time away from her. He’s growing older now. And it’d probably do for her to have someone else to love outside of her son, too.

It’s nice to think of having someone else to love him.

Hah, no, no, he’s much too old for someone to want to adopt him as their son.

His mother continues on about how well her latest date with this man went. How she’s never met such a gentleman, how she’s so smitten with him, and he with her. She drops the name of a restaurant Martin has never heard of but he assumes is better than the cold takeout that sits in front of the both of them on the uneven thing they call a dining table.

“That’s nice,” he says a few times during her story. He means it, he’s sure. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s seen her so lively.

Martin tries to get some rest that night, but there’s a draft that he cannot find the source of. This Peter really came into their lives at the right time.

* * *

Martin trudges through a muggy mid-afternoon after his shift at the only corner market that didn’t question his age. He’d long given up wiping his glasses on his shirt, as that had become too wet to do anything except smudge his vision further. The bottom hem of his trousers were cold and clammy enough that he could imagine barnacles blossoming on them. Was that poetic? He might have to write that down.

Too many unpleasant squishes of his socks into the soles of his shoes later and he comes home to people unloading his home into a van - a moving van. They were moving _already_. This was the first he’d heard of it, and he half expects it to be for someone else in the complex. Only he recognizes the beat-up couch his mother sleeps in during the day, the discoloration on the armrest, the tear at the bottom.

He hasn’t even met the man yet, and they’re moving. That doesn’t seem right.

* * *

He doesn’t meet Peter until they sit down at dinner that night. Martin is dressed in the nicest thing he has, the same shirt and trousers he bought with his savings for his interview. He feels underdressed compared to the servants moving about in the kitchen behind them - compared even to the chair he’s sitting in.

The table is made for a group of eight, and Martin and his mother are together on one end. He figures his mother’s paramour will sit opposite her, which leaves Martin as an awkward hanger-on beside her.

He plays with the knives and forks and forgets completely the order they were in. He’s staring at his mother’s setting, attempting to figure it out, when _of course_ , that’s when Peter walks in. Martin drops a fork in a panic, and it clatters _loudly_ against his plate. His mother’s hand immediately is on his thigh, nails digging into it. He winces.

Peter is entirely oblivious, striding in all smiles to peck Martin’s mother on the cheek. Beneath the fear and the nerves, Martin has to wonder again, _what_ did _this man_ see in his mother?

Martin has seen his mother’s previous suitors. The greasy type. The ones who sweat and breathe the stench of cigarettes. The ones who always leave after a couple months. He’s seen the cheap rings they wear to entice her, promising her riches, the likes of which Martin and his mother could only dream of, fantasies that pale in comparison to those that surround them now in this dining room alone. And all the questions run through his mind that always do. What does this man want? Why them? Why can’t they just be left alone?

Peter looks at Martin, and Martin hardly realizes he’s being introduced. The name his mother uses for him barely registering.

“Peter Lukas,” he says as he holds out his hand.

Martin doesn’t give his name, not willing to start a scene like this. He just takes Peter’s hand. It’s cold. He must’ve just come in from the same weather Martin had walked home in.

Peter smiles, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

* * *

Martin ate himself sick at dinner. It’s a happy sort of sickness, though. Sweet and full and almost comfortable for the first time in years. The sheets he lays upon now are soft. He’ll probably fall asleep like this, on his side, trousers unbuttoned to give himself space to breathe. This is his new room. More spacious than the flat they called home only a few hours before.

He frowns.

They’ve really left? It was all very fast.

These things take time to settle in. _He_ needs to settle in.

Later.

He’s happily settled in right now to the dent he’s made on top of the sheets. Except - damn - that draft seems to have followed him from home.

* * *

Martin is awoken early in the morning by a knock on his door. He sits up abruptly, no doubt that his mother is upset he forgot to take out the garbage last night or-

Oh.

Peter is standing in the doorway, very kempt, and Martin is laying on top of the covers, very not.

“Good morning,” Peter says.

“Good morning,” Martin parrots weakly.

“I wanted to ask you something that may be a bit, ah, private.” He steps into the room.

Martin scrambles to sit up properly (spine straight, posture correct, shoulders back-) and remembers that his trousers are still unbuttoned and that he is making a terrible impression on this nice, rich man who’s let them into his house.

Peter laughs, which is extremely discouraging. “Please, don’t worry. I dropped in unannounced. However, your mother let something slip last night that I am not so sure she meant to. But she can get rather loose-lipped when she’s had a drink.” Peter says that fondly. “So I must ask, what is your name? Your real name?”

Martin pales. “I don’t know what you mean.”

It occurs to him suddenly that he is alone in a room with a man his mother’s age. And he’s asking _questions_.

“I don’t mean anything,” Peter says. He’s still smiling, and this has to be a joke to him. “Your mother said some things, though I do not personally approve of the way she said them.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

“I am not asking out of judgement,” Peter continues. “I want us to be a family, and I’d hope that means knowing your real name.”

This is too much for Martin to process at the crack of dawn, so he takes the risk. “Martin,” he stutters.

“Martin,” Peter says.

Martin waits for the ball to drop. He waits for the sneer. The laughter. His palms are clammy, and he can’t move.

“That’s a lovely name.”

Martin swallows.

“I’ll have to have a talk with your mother,” Peter muses. Martin wishes Peter _wouldn’t_ , but he’s still frozen. There has to be more.

There is no more.

Peter leaves.

Martin relaxes into the soft bed, but he can’t go back to sleep.

* * *

His mother sleeps often during the day, her constitution not allowing her much energy. This leaves Martin to ask a servant where he can find Peter, as it occurs to Martin that he needs a way to get to work the day after next.

He’s not ready to face Peter again after that morning, but he has things to take care of, and that makes him brave. Or braver, at least. He’s still too cowardly to face Peter in anything but the same clothes he’s been wearing since last night. They’re the closest thing he has to something halfway decent.

The servant leads Martin to a massive library. The walls aren’t even close enough for Martin to begin to read the titles; he can only stare at the colorful spines that line the walls up to the ceiling. Maps are displayed on walls and in glass stands on the floor. If Martin’s jaw drops to the ground, he forgets to pick it up.

Peter stands over a vitrine table, brow furrowed in focus, and Martin musters up all that supposed bravery to interrupt him. Peter doesn’t look up from the map he’s poring over even when Martin is right beside him.

“Mr. Lukas,” Martin says far more meekly than intended.

Peter perks up. “Martin! Please, call me Peter. It would be only fair that you use my first name, if I am allowed to use yours.”

Martin decidedly cannot call a grownup by their first name, but he won’t bring that up right now. “Right…” he says. “Do you happen to know how I’d be able to get to the nearest bus stop?”

“Oh, you’d like to venture into town? I can have someone drive you.”

“No, I, uh, have work this week.”

In the huge space of the library, with its gilded columns and open-light ceiling, Martin sounds very poor.

Peter frowns. “That’s not right. No family of mine should have to busy himself when he should be studying.”

Family? That’s a bit premature.

“Call your employer. Tell them you no longer need to work there,” Peter says like someone who’s never been employed.

“I-”

“Hmm?”

Martin had started wringing his hands in front of him at some point. It’s made his hands sticky, so he shoves them into the pocket of his trousers. There’s a candy wrapper in the right pocket. He fiddles with that instead.

“Nothing,” he stammers. “I’ll quit.”

“Good! Good.” Peter claps a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “I promised your mother I’d help take care of the two of you, and I’m not one for breaking promises.”

Martin doubts, but plays along.

“Uh, where’s your phone?”

* * *

Her health is growing worse. She’d never been strong in the first place. The Lukases have private doctors that come and tend to her. White scrubs and faces hidden behind masks wander in and out and about. Martin watches from around corners how Peter sits with her quietly. He holds her hand. They don’t need to speak, not that she has the energy to do so.

Martin wonders again how she had gotten so lucky.

* * *

Martin spends time with Peter these days, too.

It’s a bit lonely, in a different way than it was when it was just him and his mother. While they didn’t always get along, they were family. His mother had the wildest tales from her walk to the market, or from the days of her youth. They’d irritated him at the time (why couldn’t she just tell the truth). He misses her voice now.

Peter has a nice voice, though. And the stories he tells are extravagant in an entirely different way. He’d think them excessive, too, but he’d come to realize that Peter is just that way. The moment clicked when Peter invited Martin to the room at the back of the library.

“A planetarium,” Martin had said, breathless with astonishment.

He’d read about them in school before he started to...attend intermittently.

“Right,” Peter had said, as he’d moved the stars above them. A whole world spun atop theirs at Peter's control.

Martin had only recognized two or so constellations, mistook and confused many more.

Peter had grinned. "That's alright. I'll teach you the rest."

But for all the grandness around Peter, he himself seems a simple man. When he tells Martin stories about the sea (because that’s what he does most of the year, apparently), it’s stories about how beautiful the ocean is, how comforting the company of the stars can be. Martin starts to see how someone like this can fall for his mother. He doesn’t seem to need much.

* * *

Three months into his new life, and Martin starts to wonder if he’ll ever meet the other Lukases. Not that he’s _excited_ or anything. He’s just curious what the rest of this family is like, especially when Peter keeps insisting that they are a very tight-knit unit. But Martin has yet to see hide nor tail of another Lukas.

“We’re all very busy,” Peter had said, as he'd sat in the library reading a book.

* * *

Martin’s not _sure_ , but he thinks he may spend more time with Peter now than he does with his mother. And this has brought rise to a very, very important question.

Exactly _who_ is the library for?

For all the time Martin is with Peter, he’s seen him drag out the same ten or so books. And all of them, and he _means_ all of them, are those with mostly large pictures and diagrams. There is no chance that Peter is reading all these books.

“Have you read all these books?” Martin asks Peter one of the many days they sit beside each other on one of the library’s expensive sofas.

“Oh, definitely not,” Peter says cheerfully. “Most of these books belong to an old friend of mine and the family. The library was his idea, truth be told. An absolute bookworm.” His voice is warm in a way that Martin has never heard before.

* * *

Boredom is far from Martin's concerns. He has a private tutor now. He’s catching up on his schooling. In his spare time, the servants will take him into town whenever he wishes. He sits himself in theatres and cafes and feels a freedom most people his age probably don’t. Except... he sort of misses people his age. Between work and taking care of the house and running errands for his mother, he didn’t socialize much. He was so busy, he couldn't _remember_ he likes the company of others. And now life has slowed down enough that he is itching to hang out with a friend or something. Sit in a theatre with someone else he can laugh or cry with. Maybe that’s why he’s itching to meet the other Lukases. It’s a big family, Peter had said. There are bound to be others his age.

* * *

Martin sits next to his mother as she tells him he should grow his hair out again. He nods and shrugs and leaves as soon as she falls back asleep.

* * *

Peter is in the den, a glass of wine and its bottle on the table between him and the fire. He’s staring deep into the flame. Martin almost doesn’t want to interrupt him, but he needs someone to talk to right now.

“Peter?” he says from the doorway.

Peter turns to him, not the least bit startled. “Come in, Martin.” He pats the cushion next to him, and Martin takes the invitation.

“Would you care for a drink? I’m sure your mother wouldn’t mind.” Peter asks in that way where Martin never knows if he’s joking or not.

“That’s… actually what I came to talk to you about.”

“Hmm?”

“She seemed,” Martin gulps, “a lot worse today. I came to see her a few times, but she wasn’t awake.”

The words feel strange. He knows his mother is sick. Peter knows his mother is sick. Why is it so hard to tell him what they already know.

“I’ll have the doctors check on her again tomorrow,” Peter says.

_Again_. They’d just visited yesterday.

Martin looks at the fire, because he doesn’t know where else to look. He can feel its warmth from where he sits, but there’s a creeping cold crawling up his spine. It’s always been him and his mother. He knows one day he’ll lose her. That’s what happens. You lose your parents. People grow old and die.

“Were you serious about that drink?” Martin asks.

“I’m always serious, Martin.”

Martin snorts, but he takes the glass when Peter hands it to him. Is it weird to drink from the same glass Peter had been? He can’t really find it in him to care right now. His hands are shaking, and he needs both to keep the glass steady. He doesn’t _drink_ , never has had the time nor the interest. He’s taken a few sips from his mother’s cup when the mood struck her; it was always too bitter for him. The wine from Peter’s glass isn’t. He can taste the sweet, and the bitterness is a faraway note. He takes a second sip, and then a third much larger one before he hands the glass back to Peter.

Peter sets it back on the table. “Easy there,” he says, though he’s still got that same smile he always does.

Martin doesn’t know how Peter keeps it on his face all the time. “I’m worried about her.”

“I am, as well.”

Peter places a hand on Martin’s back, between his shoulders, and Martin has to struggle not to break. He doesn’t remember the last time his mother rubbed his shoulders when he cried, or even held his hand. He’s taken her hand many times as she laid in bed weak and shaky, but she’s never reached for him. That shouldn’t mean anything. She’s ill and needs care. She doesn’t have the energy to waste on him. It’s _fine_ that he stows himself away in his room to cry so she doesn't have to see. It’s _fine_ that he has to take care of her when she can’t even remember the names of his teachers, or his friends’ names, or his birthday.

He grabs the wineglass off the table and downs the rest of it. Peter gently takes it away from him shortly after.

“Is she going to die?” Martin asks, feebly.

Peter sighs, “Our doctors will do the best they can to prevent that.”

“That’s not a no.”

“I don’t want to lie.”

“Great,” Martin says to the fire. “That’s just great.” The cold is still holding onto him. He shivers, then he’s shaking, then he’s sobbing.

It’s terrible to cry in front of someone else. He should be alone in his room, where no one else can see him be _weak_ like this. But Peter’s wrapping his arms around Martin, and Martin lets go. Cries loudly and pathetically into Peter’s chest. Struggles to recall the last time he was hugged and cries harder. Peter’s been kinder to him than his mother ever was. A stranger who waltzed into their little world, and he’s the only adult who’s listened to Martin in his entire life. It might be alright that Peter is allowed to hear him cry like this, ugly and small and alone. Because he _has_ no one else except for his mother.

Peter rubs his back, and Martin cries until he can’t cry anymore. He lets Peter walk him to his room. Peter makes sure he gets into bed before he leaves.

Martin falls asleep quickly, utterly drained. He dreams of Peter’s hands.

* * *

Martin spends the entirety of the next day watching the doctors tend to his mother. She’s eventually moved into one of those hospital beds, hooked up to monitors. She has her own room now. When the doctors leave, Martin sits at her side until he falls asleep.

* * *

The days start to blend together.

He’ll finish his schooling for the day. He’ll sit next to his mum, watching the monitor beep. He’ll read to her, or she’ll be awake enough to tell him stories. He trades off with Peter, because, he tells himself repeatedly, Peter loves her, too. They should have their time together. He’ll have dinner next to her, if Peter doesn't. Or, he’ll have dinner alone with Peter.

He’ll retire to his room, and he’ll dream of Peter.

* * *

The days do all blend together now. Never-ending.

* * *

There’s a scare where her heart rate drops too low. Martin remembers being rushed out of the room as doctors come in to save her life. He doesn’t remember much else aside from the carpet at foot of his bed and the hot wet tears in his palms.

* * *

The dreams start to grow strange and embarrassing. His mother is sick and dying; Martin forces himself to forget the dreams.

* * *

“How are you coping so well?” Martin asks across the dinner table. If he sounds accusatory, it’s because he’s been thinking about not having his mother for his next birthday.

“Faith, mostly,” Peter says.

“You’re religious?”

Peter laughs. “The whole family is very religious. We’re just very private about it.”

_Again_. There Peter goes _again_ about “the whole family”. Martin’s skeptical they even exist at this point. In such dire times, there should’ve been someone to visit, right? He’s more interested in Peter being religious of all things at the moment. It has somehow never come up, even though Peter now claims that it’s important to him. Martin’s always assumed Peter bullshits a lot to him, but he was used to it. It’s nowhere near as egregious as what his mother does - did.

“You’ve just never mentioned that before,” Martin says.

“I don’t feel the need to share my faith with others,” Peter shrugs. “It’s something between me and my patron.”

Martin watches Peter take a sip from a wineglass and realizes too late he’s staring. Peter doesn’t comment.

* * *

His dreams are the worst yet that night.

Martin wakes up with a start. He’s _freezing_ , but he can’t find an open window. And _fuck_ his pants are soaking wet.

He quickly changes them and shoves himself under the covers. He doesn’t want to think. He just wants to be warm and asleep.

* * *

Martin can’t keep his eyes off Peter anymore. He always feels his gaze drifting when he and Peter are in the same room together. It makes him a little sick. This is his mum’s boyfriend. She’s dying, and here Martin is thinking of-

Of-

He puts a too-large spoonful of food in his mouth, and Peter frowns at him.

* * *

“We’re getting married,” his mother says to him.

“What?”

“Peter suggested it. He wants to make sure he can take care of you.”

“That’s-”

“It’s very kind of him, isn’t it?”

There’s a terrible swirl of emotions in the pit of Martin’s stomach. It sounds like a signature on a goodbye - _so he can take care of you_. She’s his mother. _She_ should be the one taking care of him.

He confronts Peter about it later.

Peter drops the smile long enough to say, “I know it’s sudden, but I want you in my care, Martin.”

“I don’t _need_ a new father,” Martin says, immediately aware of how petulant he sounds. Peter is offering to take on the burden of Martin's guardianship, and it’s not like they don’t get along. But Martin _had_ a father, and that didn’t turn out well for anybody.

“I’m not saying I’ll be your father. It’s just easier legally.”

Martin doesn’t know enough about adoption laws to argue. And it does assuage his fears a bit. He really, _really_ doesn’t want a new parent. Especially not- not Peter.

“Nothing will change, Martin,” Peter says. “I promise.”

* * *

Martin grips the pillow as Peter fingers him. Peter’s gotten better at it as they’ve done this more often, knows exactly where Martin likes to be touched.

“Really?” Peter asks playfully.

Martin whines, unable to answer. He’s distracted by his efforts to grind back on Peter’s thick fingers filling him up.

“Are you going to come on your father’s hand?”

Martin wakes up, fitful, sick, cold, soaking wet again.

Something is wrong with him, and he needs to find out what. He doesn’t dare go back to sleep, so he takes a hot shower and tiptoes into the library. There has to be a book somewhere about what the hell is going on. The caution is more habit than necessity in a house this large. He has to _try_ whenever he wants to find someone else. No one will find him in the dead of night unless they're looking. And no one ever looks for Martin.

The cruel words of his peers start their rattling echo in his mind - (something _is_ wrong with you).

He pays those no heed and looks through the library’s reference book for something to explain it. He settles on a general book about psychology, one innocuous enough to not draw questions if someone does happen to find him. He almost picked one about puberty but decides that makes him sick in a different way.

The book on psychology is so dated and dry that Martin passes out on its pages in a handful of minutes.

* * *

“You’re not coming down with something, are you?” his mother asks him.

“No,” Martin answers. The bags under his eyes probably say something else.

“You need to take care of yourself. You’re going to get sick like me.”

Martin frowns.

That's not funny.

* * *

His mother is deep asleep.

They had another scare that day, and Martin wants to let her rest.

He walks around the mansion until he finds Peter in the den again, exactly the same way as last time. His eyes are locked on the fire, wine sitting on the table. It almost feels set up, if that idea wasn’t so dumb. Peter’s just really habitual, and Martin likes that. Predictability is exactly what he needs these days.

“Are you still allowing me to drink?” Martin asks.

Peter turns to him with the same damn smile. “If you’ll keep me company.”

Martin plops himself down next to Peter on the couch. It strikes him how bone-tired he is. When the days blend together so seamlessly, it makes each feel so much longer. Is that poetic? He hasn’t written a word of poetry in a while.

Peter hands him the glass, and Martin downs the entire thing.

Peter frowns. “You don’t know how to drink wine, do you, Martin?”

“Nope,” Martin says, handing the glass back to Peter. He likes seeing Peter frown. It’s a welcome contrast to his perpetual cheery grin. And it feels… safe.

When his mother frowns, Martin can expect a lecture of some sort. When Peter frowns, that’s it. He’s not about to yell at Martin. He’s not going to blame him for something. He frowns. Then he’s smiling again, and Martin likes that. Predictable.

“Look at me,” Peter says, and Martin does.

Peter pours himself some wine, swirls it, and then - pointedly - takes a small sip. He passes it to Martin, who copies him exactly.

“Better?” Martin asks.

Peter laughs, “I’m just toying with you, Martin. You drink it how you want.”

Martin levels a glare at Peter and takes a big gulp.

“Just be careful you don’t make yourself ill,” Peter says.

“I’ll blame for you for that. You’re my legal guardian.”

The words don't taste right in his mouth. They're sour, and curl into the warmth in his ears that he can’t tell the origin of.

Peter steals the glass from him and chugs the rest, because he’s intent on being an ass right now. “Finally taking to the idea?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s alright,” Peter assures him. “Like I said, I have no intention of being your father.”

Martin looks directly into Peter’s eyes. “What if I _want_ you to be?”

“I don’t know if I’d be a very good one.”

The wine is definitely starting to work its way up Martin’s cheeks. He feels a bit fuzzy, and he can’t read Peter’s tone very well.

“I think you’re pretty good,” he says stupidly. Way to sound weird to a man he’s known for all of a few months.

“That’s very flattering.”

“I think you’re _great_. Better than Mum ever was.” Okay, now that actually is too stupid to say aloud. And what's with him referring to his mum in the past tense.

Peter puts a hand on his shoulder, and Martin doesn’t hesitate to lean into it. He thinks a lot about Peter’s hands. He remembers how they’d felt in his dreams - in _all_ of his dreams.

“That’s not very nice to say, Martin,” but Peter doesn’t sound very chastising.

Martin leans more until he’s laying on Peter’s shoulder. “She’s not very nice to me.”

He’s this close to Peter’s face, and he can’t read his expression. He can’t think very clearly at all, actually, and that’s good. He thinks too much these days. All these questions about his mum. About his future. About Peter. God, he thinks so much about Peter. The only one who’s consistently with him. The only one he’ll have after this - after his mum. He’s not thinking when he pushes himself up and kisses Peter on the lips.

Martin pulls back, heart racing, face hot.

“Is this what you want?” Peter asks.

“Yes,” Martin responds quickly.

Peter kisses him on the forehead. “Again, that’s very flattering, but you should think about it more, first.”

“What.”

Peter places both hands on Martin’s shoulders and helps him stand up. “Let’s get you to bed.”

* * *

Martin wakes up without any dreams haunting him.

He is, however, haunted by the memories of last night.

He _cannot_ face Peter.

* * *

Martin successfully avoids Peter for the next three days (three days that his dreams get progressively worse over), requesting that the servants bring food to his room instead. And Peter doesn’t seek him out. Which makes perfect sense. He’d freaking kissed Peter. And Peter had done the responsible adult thing and had rejected Martin.

But by day four, Peter comes knocking on Martin’s door, and Martin doesn’t have the heart to slam the door on his face. He’s the one who messed up. He can’t take it out on Peter. And maybe - just _maybe_ \- Peter will brush it off as the awful first time a kid got tipsy, and Martin will not bring up the fact that he wasn’t actually more than a little buzzed. This can all be fine! They can go back to normal!

“About the other day,” Peter starts, and Martin’s heart drops.

“I was drunk,” Martin spits out.

“Ah.”

That should be the end of the conversation - please be the end of the conversation - but Peter steps in the room and closes the door behind him.

“I think we should talk about it more,” Peter continues.

Martin is just about to die from secondhand embarrassment. He stands glued to his spot, while Peter far too casually walks over to Martin’s bed. He sits down on the edge of the same bed that Martin’s soaked in his slick every night thinking about him. This is not fine.

“Come here,” Peter says.

Martin walks over as sturdily as he can, which is to say, not at all. He all but crumples into his seat beside Peter. The soft bed needs to be softer until Martin can fall into it and be swallowed forever.

Peter places a hand on Martin’s shoulder. It feels too nice. “I understand things have been… difficult.”

Martin nods.

“And you’re at an age where a lot of things are changing.”

Martin bites the inside of his cheek and nods again.

“I am unsurprised that things may be a bit confusing.”

The ball is going to drop soon. Peter is about to tell Martin he’s disgusting. Martin’s been waiting for it since the moment that Peter _knew about him_. This has to be the tipping point. Peter’s going to say what he’s been waiting to say all this time. It wasn’t enough that Martin dresses the way he does. Parades himself around as something he’s not. No - he has the _audacity_ to like boys while doing his little costumed song and dance.

Peter places his fingers under Martin’s chin and tilts his head up so they’re making eye contact.

“You’re a very bright, handsome boy, Martin. I’m sure you can find someone your own age.”

Peter has been _nice_ , but he can’t be _this nice_. The anxiety is boiling in Martin’s gut. Peter needs to just _say it_. Martin _knows_ there’s something wrong with him. As if everything else wasn’t bad enough, he’s tried to go after the man his dying mother loves. How can Peter expect him to find someone who’ll accept everything _wrong_ with him?

“Stop that,” Martin says. Shit. He can hear his voice breaking with tears already.

“Stop what?”

“Stop playing dumb. Tell me what you really want to say. Tell me what you and Mum talk about when I’m not there. _She’s_ told me plenty of times.” He’s starting to yell, but he can’t keep control of his voice. And it’s the only way to get his words through the tears. “That I need to grow up. That I need to stop playing pretend. That I need to dress _right_. A-and stop being so-” He waves his hands around, unable to find the right word.

Peter sighs and pulls Martin into a hug. “It must be so hard,” he says, “not having anyone you can turn to.”

Martin feels like a small child being comforted after getting into a fight at school. But he won’t complain. It’s not like he has any dignity left to lose, and it’s not like Peter is wrong. Martin doesn’t know _anyone else_ like himself. Peter’s the first person who’s ever _known_ and not made some snide comment. To his face.

“I promised I’d take care of you, didn’t I?” Peter says.

Martin nods.

“Then, I’m going to ask you again. Is this what you really want?”

Martin doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Alright,” Peter says. He gently pushes Martin back onto the bed and leans down to kiss him. And it’s better than any of Martin’s awful dreams. “I’ll take care of you, Martin. I’ve already made sure this has been much easier for you than it was for me.”

Martin doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t care. Peter’s hand is sliding under the hem of his pants. Lower. And he’s _good_ at it. He’s fingering Martin at just the right angle, palm grinding on him at the right pressure. Martin’s going to come too soon, especially with - _oh_ , Peter kisses him so softly. Martin wraps his arms around Peter’s neck, moaning against Peter’s tongue as he comes. It feels wrong, but he takes it. He’s felt wrong all his life.

* * *

The dreams don’t come that night, though Martin hardly sleeps. He's still hung up on- on all of it. Doesn’t Peter love his mother, too? Why would he betray her like that?

* * *

“I’m sure you understand in her state, she can’t well give me such things,” Peter says, when his mouth isn’t between Martin’s legs. He switches to fingering Martin, so he can continue. “And I think you’ll find my family open to far more than you’re accustomed to.”

* * *

Martin finds it difficult to sit at his mother’s bedside these days, knowing that at night he sleeps in her husband’s bed. But Peter assures him that what his mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her. And knowing _her_ , Martin's inclined to agree.

* * *

“You said something before,” Martin says at dinner.

“Hmm?” Peter looks to where Martin sits next to him.

“Something about your family being accustomed to things.”

Peter ruffles Martin’s hair obnoxiously. “Old families like mine, we have our own traditions.”

“Like?”

“Well, incest isn’t that strange.”

Martin chokes on his food. “I thought you said you didn’t want to be my father.”

“Unless you’re into that?” Peter needs to stop smiling like that, especially right now.

Martin can’t handle having to consider the fact that it might be somewhat enticing. “I’m not.” He thinks for a second before asking his next question. “What about… how old I am?”

“What about how old you are?”

Peter cannot be this stupid.

“You know,” Martin says. “They wouldn’t… be mad you’re sleeping with someone my age?”

“No, I don’t see why not. It’s not like I’m taking you to be wed. People come into their sexuality differently, Martin. I’m just taking care of yours. Besides, is it not better that it be me than risk someone who’d hurt you? Think about it this way. When you’re ready to date someone your own age, you’ll already have some experience under your belt.” Peter winks, and Martin wants to smack him.

Martin goes to sleep wondering if he’d ever be able to date someone his own age. He doesn’t even know what his ideal boyfriend would be. He used to think of things like an office romance. Of someone bookish and serious. Someone who could banter with him tit-for-tat. Now, he can only think of Peter.

He forgets to visit his mother. It’s only fair that she passes away that night.

* * *

It turns out that Peter _does_ have a large family. The funeral finds the estate packed with too many faces. Any previous desire to meet them has dissipated along with every other emotion Martin used to have. He guesses he does still feel a few things. Hollow. Guilty. Desolated. Like someone took a shovel and dug a grave in the cavity of his chest. At least he’ll have plenty to write poetry about now.

He didn’t visit her that last night.

How fucking selfish could he be. Have a happy dinner where he talks all about sleeping with her husband and then go to sleep forgetting about his dear mum.

He loves her.

He loved her.

They’ve only ever had each other, and now she’s gone. Ain’t that terrible? Martin asks himself that again and again, waiting for it to land. It’s not processing. He’s sure he’ll cry later. These things take time. Or so he’s heard.

There are too many people here that he doesn’t know. They’re all here for Peter’s comfort, Martin’s sure, but it just makes him feel worse. Peter has this gigantic family he can turn to.

Martin has - well - Peter.

Who he hasn’t seen in hours.

He probably has family to entertain.

Martin didn’t even know any aunts or uncles he could call. His mother had been an only child, just like him.

Martin wants this to be over with, so it can go back to just being the two of them. The only reason he’s not holed up in his room right now is that he needs to say a few words about her. The burial tomorrow will, thankfully, be quicker, a grace to the empty grief. He’ll just need to get up to go to the backyard. And that’s nice, right? She’ll be buried on the estate. He can visit her everyday.

He curls a bit closer in on himself where he sits in the corner and watches the people mill about. He’s seen them all pass by multiple times, but he can’t remember a single face.

* * *

Martin can’t look into the coffin, even though he knows it’s the last time he’ll see his mother. He stares at the photograph propped beside her instead. She looks so healthy in it that he thinks it has to be fake. She’s never been so lively.

Peter is on stage, talking. His words go in one ear and out the other. Martin’s running what he’ll say through his head. None of it sounds right. His entire life can’t be summed up into a neat little speech. It feels like an insult, to him and her both. But he has to say something. Her life can’t end without him helping punctuate it.

He gets behind the podium after Peter finishes. Peter pats him on the shoulder as they pass each other.

The crowd is quiet respectful.

Martin stares into the rows upon rows of people he doesn’t recognize. Not a single one of them visited in the time Martin and his mother had lived here. None of them knew her. Exchanged a word with her. And Martin realizes that it doesn’t matter what he says. She’s no one to them. A ghost at best, a body at most. Only two people in this room will remember she even existed. She’s all but gone.

She is gone.

So he says what is polite, then steps off the stage.

* * *

Martin is laying in bed when Peter finds him late into the night.

“Done?” Martin asks.

“Yes, for now. There’ll be things to tend to in the morning, but that’s in the morrow.”

Peter doesn’t need to be asked to sit next to Martin. He has a hand on Martin’s shoulder, soothing him, again, without needing to be asked. Things could be worse, Martin supposes.

“I love her,” he says quietly.

“I did, too.”

Martin sits up. “Please don’t forget her.”

“I won’t.”

Martin shuffles closer to Peter on the bed and kisses him. He doesn’t particularly want to. He just doesn’t know what else to do right now. He feels too cold, and he wants Peter to warm him up. It’s only after Peter presses him into the covers, sucking at his neck, that Martin realizes Peter has no body heat. Has he always been like that?

Peter easily strips Martin of the stiff suit they’d bought just for this occasion. Peter is more aggressive than usual, and Martin kind of likes it. The bites on his chest distract him from the same monologue that’s been running through his head since he found out his mother passed. All the “it’s your fault”’s, “you did this to her”’s; all the “selfish, selfish”’s; they’re kept muted as Peter brings his mouth to Martin’s clit. Martin does still wonder how Peter caught on so quickly to what Martin likes. Everyone is supposed to be different, or so he’d thought. Peter gets Martin to his climax methodically. As Martin pants, recovering, Peter takes out his cock. Martin moves to sit up, so he can suck Peter off, too, but Peter halts him with a hand to his chest.

“I want you, Martin,” he says, still smiling like he always does. And Martin knows without a doubt that it’s fake now. His mother just died. Peter shouldn’t be able to smile like that.

Well, in the same vein, Martin shouldn’t be able to fuck her husband like this. It’s wrong, but no one’s here to stop him. It’s just him and Peter, and Peter’s the one enabling him. Martin’s life is one long line of mistakes, and his stepfather putting his cock into Martin for the first time on the day of his mother’s funeral seems like a very fitting bullet point to the list.

It’s not even difficult. Martin had thought something so large, something that he has difficulty fitting into his mouth, would be similarly difficult to fit into his cunt. But he'll just have to add "slut" onto that list as well.

“You feel as good as I’ve always imagined,” Peter says, and Martin wonders how long _has_ Peter been imagining this.

It’s okay. Martin’s happy with what they have now.

He thinks.

He doesn’t want to think.

He lets the hot slide of Peter’s cock in and out of his body take away any last worry he has. He doesn’t need to worry as long as he has Peter. Even if it’s just the two of them.

“I love you,” he says. He’s not thinking.

“I’ll take care of you, Martin.” Peter says, sure enough for both of them. “After all, you are a Lukas now.”

And he's right.

**Author's Note:**

> HOTFIX 1/1/21 edited some of the really offensive demonstrations of sentence structures


End file.
